


Lost In The Storm

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Children, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Siblings, Sibling Bonding, Storms, young loki, young thor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14247894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Short ficlet based on an RP prompt. Loki is watching the storm when Thor barges into his room. Loki is the equivalent of around 8/9, Thor is around 10/11.





	Lost In The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Original Ask](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/369150) by mystarsforanempire (Loki RP Blog). 



A storm has Asgard in its dread grasp.

Loki sits upon the padded bench he has made up of his western window, the most comfortable reading nook in the palace, with his legs crossed beneath him and his back against the side of the sill, his gaze on the expanse of the palace grounds and the city below. Rain pours down in thick, heavy globs, and the deluge gathers in the gutters that run along the palace walls, overflowing in the now useless barrels that ought serve to catch the rainwater, and torrenting down the city streets in parody of the river to the north of the city. The wind howls like some dying animal, and every few minutes a rocketing FLASH will burst across the sky.

Here, from the comfort of his bedroom window, Loki is enchanted by the lightning, by the way it rips its way through the violet skies and cuts its way downwards, and the distant rumble of the thunder that follows it settles in Loki’s very bones.

Just this morning, Loki had been practising his Skywalking in the vicinity of the palace grounds, coming nearly TWENTY FEET into the air, but the air had felt thick, and heavy, overencumbered with some strangeness he knew not. Heimdall had come for him, for Father was far away on some business with Hoenir at his side, and Heimdall had brought him back within the safety of the palace, his broad hand on Loki’s shoulder.

Mother was already in one of the living rooms, teaching Thor with a book in her lap, and Loki had known better than to disturb his brother’s lesson: Loki doesn’t like it when Thor interrupts his own lessons, with Mother or with some other tutor, and he knows he ought offer Thor the same courtesy. He had walked with the watcher to his own quarters, looking up at the other man with curiosity filling him to the very brim. There is something about Heimdall’s amber gaze that makes Loki trust him, even though his enchanted stare makes it difficult to get away with certain hijinks, and Loki asks, “What makes the sky so heavy, Heimdall? It makes the very air as syrup.”

Heimdall’s response is, as ever, well measured and knowledgeable: “A change in temperature, your highness. Warm air from the western wind has displaced cold air in the atmosphere, but as cold air is displaced, more rushes in to take its place - there is a tension in the air, now. We shall have a storm tonight.” A storm!

“A storm: Thor will love that,” Loki says mildly, his lips quirked into a small smile. “This is why you brought me in from my Skywalking.”

“Yes, your highness,” Heimdall says freely, giving a small, polite bow of his head and his shoulders. Some members of the Counsel of the Gods make Loki feel eternally small and young - Freya especially, with her curled lips and staring eyes - but Heimdall has never made Loki feel smaller than he is. He is kind, and gentle, as large as he is, and it is so often Heimdall that finds Loki when he has wandered farther than he ought, but never with an unpleasant word. “I will leave you. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Heimdall,” Loki murmurs, and he sets himself into the safety of his room to watch the storm. It will be at least another hour or so before Mother comes to insist Loki put himself abed, and for now he is glad to watch the storm unfold itself. Another rumble of thunder grinds across the sky, and Loki feels himself shiver.

“Loki?” Loki jumps, startled from his seat, and he whips his head around. His older brother is there before him, dressed in his bedclothes with a blanket wrapped half about his shoulders, half dragging on the floor, and Loki stares at him. Thor’s bright eyes are wide, and his feet are bare on the marble floor of Loki’s quarters.

“You didn’t knock! Why do you never knock!?” Loki snaps, his shoulders squaring as Thor carefully closes Loki’s bedroom door behind him. Thor and Loki have their own bed chambers, but they share the living area between the two, and Loki so hates to have people intrude upon his neat, orderly space.

“I did knock,” Thor says, curling his lips. “You just didn’t hear it because of the thunder.”

“You ought have knocked louder,” Loki insists. “I might have been undressed.” Rolling his eyes, Thor clambers up onto the bench beside Loki, with little care for the fact the small nook barely houses Loki himself, until their legs are entangled and Loki’s knee is pressed uncomfortably against the cool, damp glass of his window.

Thor shares his blanket, placing it with care over Loki’s shoulders as much as his own, and Loki exhales slowly, looking out of the window once more. Loki spends much of his life in meditative silence: he enjoys the way threads shift beneath his hands as he weaves or sews, enjoys the companionable quiet of a flickering candle and a well-read book in the library, enjoys the ozone spread of magic on the air. Even for music, he appreciates the apprehensive quiet that comes before a musician plays his first note, or sings his first line. Even when Loki talks, he prefers for his words to cut through an established hush.

“Loki,” Thor says, interrupting the silence, and Loki looks at his brother. Thor’s eyes are serious; his jaw is set.

“What ails you so?” Loki asks, irritably. “There is a storm to be enjoyed, and here you are, barging in upon my bedchamber. Don’t you like storms? I believed you to like them more than I, and yet–”

“Father isn’t back yet,” Thor says, urgently.

“I know,” Loki says. Thor sighs, fidgeting in his place (although there is little place to fidget), and he runs his hand through his thick, blond hair.

“He was meant to be.” Loki’s brows furrow. Pressing his lips together, a flush coming to Thor’s cheeks, he continues, “Loki, Father and Hoenir were meant to be back three nights ago. I wasn’t meant to tell you - I’m not meant to know: I heard Mother speaking with Freyr and Freya as they dined together this morning.” Loki feels an unease settle in the pit of his belly, and he presses his lips together tightly.

(Sometimes, Loki’s lips pain him, a soft agony curving its way through the edges of his lower and bottom lip; when he had asked Mother about it, she had soothingly told him every god feels pains, at times, even strange pains, but Loki knows from half-heard conversations that it is a future-pain, a pain to come, and yet a pain so entwined with his being, his godhood, that he feels twinges of it even now, in the past.

Do you ever feel pains like that? he had asked Thor, once.

In my heart, Thor had told him softly, and Loki had never mentioned it again.)

“What of Heimdall?” Loki asks. He touches his hands together, unable to keep his fingers still, and he continues, “His Allsight–”

“Heimdall sees them not,” Thor mutters. “They travel in a haze of magic.” Thor’s expression betrays his desperate thinking, his regret, and it seems he realises all at once that Loki fears, as much as he himself does, the worst. “I oughtn’t have told you: I’m sorry.”

“You told me for a reason, did you not?” Loki presses, and Thor sighs.

“I didn’t want to bear the weight alone.” Loki inclines his head: that is a better reason than some. Shifting the position of his knees, he leans toward his brother, so that the two of them sit shoulder to shoulder, and they look out of the window together. The rain is growing ever heavier, and the houses in the streets of Asgard are like small islands, floating amidst the seas that are the streets.

“A weight shared is halved,” Loki murmurs softly. Thor’s hand touches Loki’s, and Loki allows the other boy his palm, so that they might interlink their fingers. It is a strange anchor, Thor’s hand in Loki’s own: and the creeping fear that had begun its loop between Loki’s belly and his heart is stopped in its tracks, and Loki only hopes that he might be a similar anchor for his brother. “It would be very easy to kill you like this.”

“Shut up, Loki.”

“I’m merely saying, you’re very vulnerable like this - I only need a burst of magic to open the window latch, and–” Thor shoves him, and Loki smiles, albeit weakly, and leans his head upon his brother’s shoulder. Thor’s hand is a pleasant weight in his own, although his skin is hotter than Loki’s, and Loki feels the thunder lull him into a slow, easy slumber.

* * *

 

There is light coming into Loki’s bedroom, and he frowns, pressing the heel of his hand against one of his sleepy eyes and rubbing at it. His curtains are open… Why is that? He looks blearily about the room, and sees in Loki’s open doorway (hadn’t Thor closed it?) a tall figure, his auburn hair greying in places. “And here I thought my children had outgrown the sharing of their beds.”

“Father!” Loki and Thor cry out as one, and they both hurriedly tumble and crawl from the mess of bed clothes tangled upon Loki’s mattress - Loki had been curled, snake-like, in the corner of the bed, and Thor had been outstretched amidst two or three knotted blankets. Loki is still drowsy, his eyes dry, but he knows Mother must have lifted them with magic as they yet slept, placing them in bed.

Loki throws his arms about his father’s waist, holding him tightly, and Thor puts one broad arm around his father, and another around Loki’s shoulders. “We thought you lost,” Thor says: Father’s armour is still wet from the storm, and Loki hears the rumble of thunder in his father’s soft chuckle.

“Never, my sons. I am never lost to you.” The words echo strangely in Loki’s head - again, he has the strangest feeling of that future-pain, undefinable and yet present, but he brushes the thought aside. He meets Thor’s eyes, and they share a SMILE before they follow their father to their breakfast table.

Thor doesn’t say so, but Loki can see in his eyes that Thor feels it too. It is not something to be spoken of.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you enjoyed this, feel free to follow me on [my RP blog.](http://mystarsforanempire.tumblr.com) I sort of function as an ask blog as well, so you can always send in questions, et cetera.


End file.
